


Decay

by CrimsonQuill



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Maggots, Nightmares, Other, Vomit, Vomiting, Whump, emeto tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonQuill/pseuds/CrimsonQuill
Summary: Mollymauk has a particularly visceral nightmare. It's a good think Fjord is there to help.





	Decay

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mollys all buggy inside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406621) by [Newagenewbarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newagenewbarricade/pseuds/Newagenewbarricade). 



> It's gross and I hope no one I know ever finds my account but I had fun writing it so?? Enjoy???

Molly grinned, downing another drink as he sat with the rest of the Nein at the Leaky Tap. To celebrate the success of their recent adventures, the Nein were enjoying an evening of revelry. Molly loved every minute of it, from taking shots with Nott, to teasing Beau and pestering Caleb. With his friends by his side, Molly hoped these times would last forever. Unfortunately, some things are too good to be true. 

As the night was winding down, Molly began to get uncomfortable. He began to itch, and he had a tickle in his throat. He tried to subtly clear his throat, but doing so just made him cough. He quickly covered his mouth with his hand. He took a deep breath, coughing harder. He hacked and choked until he felt something warm and wet fall into his palm. 

When Molly finally looked up, everyone was staring at him. 

“Are you alright Mr. Mollymauk?” Caleb asked. 

“Of course! I’m perfectly fi-“ 

Molly had to stifle a gasp. Lying in his hand was a blood covered maggot. 

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Molly asked. He tried to keep his voice light and expression calm. “I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for a response, Molly rose and hurried up the stairs. The itching was more noticeable now. The urge to scratch grew with step he climbed. He ran into his room and slammed the door behind him.

Now that he was alone, he started to scratch. He raked his nails across any exposed skin. It did nothing to satisfy the itch. He ran his fingers over his arms and swore he could feel small lumps beneath the surface of his skin. He scratched harder, leaving red streaks down his arms and neck. Suddenly, Molly felt one of the lumps moving beneath his skin. He shuddered. The bugs seemed to be spurred into action. Molly was now acutely, horribly, aware of the maggots squirming within his body. There were tens, maybe hundreds of them. They wiggled and squirmed, burrowing their tiny bodies into his flesh. Molly could practically hear them gnawing away at his precious insides. He scratched himself raw. When that did nothing, he ripped one of his swords from its sheath and made a cut down his arm. The sword glowed with radiant energy. It’s light illuminated the blood that dripped from his fresh wound, and with it he could see a blood coated maggot wriggling it’s way from beneath his lavender skin. This thing had been inside him. Molly felt sick. He looked away as a wave of vertigo washed over him. The maggots moved at a frantic pace. Molly’s nose was filled with the scent of blood...and the sweet scent of rot.

The skin around his wound had gone from bright and vibrant to deathly pale and was speckled with shades of yellow and green. The maggots pressed themselves against Molly’s skin. It felt like burning coals searing his flesh, except if red hot coals could squirm. And the sounds. Dear gods the sounds. He could hear them. Their tiny little mouths munching on his organs. He could feel them straining to be free. 

A second maggot burst through his skin. It wriggled itself out of the hole it made in Molly’s shoulder and left a gaping wound in its wake. 

Then a third emerged. Then a fourth. And a fifth. The wounds they left behind rotted almost immediately. The stench was sickening. More and more maggots burst through his flesh. Patches of Molly’s rapidly rotting skin sloughed off. He winced as he heard the chunks splatter onto the floor. 

Molly’s heart was pounding. His head was spinning. He was dying. He was going to die alone on the floor of an inn. He was going to die and he didn’t know how to stop it. His chest was tight and his breathing came in shallow gasps. Maybe his lungs were filling up with his own blood. Or maggots. He felt like he was choking. It was cruelly reminiscent of his earliest memory, choking on dirt as he dug himself out of his grave with his bare hands. Molly could hardly stand to look at his hands anymore; there was little skin left unmarred by the new wounds. The maggots that had freed themselves were exploring their expanded territory. They crawled across the floor, on Molly’s coat, in his hair, on his horns. He tried to cry out for help, but trying to breathe deeply enough just made him cough.

A choked sob escaped him, followed by another round of coughs. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he coughed up more blood and maggots. Tears slipped down his cheeks. They felt thicker than water. Too thick. As they dripped off his chin he could see they were crimson. 

A puddle of blood surrounded Molly. He had no idea how much blood he had lost, but he knew it was enough to make him feel lightheaded. This was it. This was how we was going to die. Alone, in a pool of his own blood, being eaten alive by maggots. 

Molly tried again to call for help, but it was no use. He was hyperventilating in earnest, and could barely get enough oxygen to stay conscious, much less raise his voice. Still, maggots swarmed out of his flesh, leaving searing, rotting holes behind them. 

Molly could feel his consciousness slipping away. He panicked. In one last, desperate attempt, he crawled, practically dragged himself toward the door. He could feel maggots being crushed under his weight. He kept scooting forward, even as dark spots danced in his vision. He stretched his arm out and reached for the doorknob, but was just a moment too late as his consciousness slid through his fingers and his body went limp on the floor. 

Molly awoke with a start and bolted upright. He was still alive, and in his bed at the inn. He was drenched in sweat and his stomach was churning. His mouth flooded with coppery saliva. He barely had enough time to roll over before he was heaving the previous night’s dinner back onto the floor. 

The sound of Molly’s retching woke Fjord. He sat up, bleary and confused, and lit the lamp at his bedside. He turned to Molly, looking alarmed as he took in the sight. He waited politely for Molly to finish dry heaving before he spoke.

“Are you alright?”

Molly took in a shaky breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I think so. Nightmare. Particularly vivid.”

Fjord nodded empathetically. He’d had his share of nightmares. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

Molly winced and shook his head. He’d rather just try to forget about the horrors his subconscious had conjured for him.

“I’m sorry about...this,” Molly said, gesturing to the mess on the floor. 

“Don’t worry about it. We can clean it. Things like this happen sometimes. Trust me, I would know.”

Molly gave him a weak smile.

“Do you want me to get you some water?” Fjord asked.

“Please.”

Fjord nodded and left the room. 

Molly sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Now that he was alone with his thoughts again, he was beginning to feel the tendrils of dread creep back into his mind. He was embarrassed to admit how much the nightmare had shaken him. It’s alright, he told himself, it was just a dream. Yet he couldn’t help but scan his arms for holes and scratch at phantoms hiding under his skin. 

Molly jumped when Fjord returned with the water. He didn’t say anything, simply handed Molly the glass. Fjord also held a damp cloth, which he began to use to wipe up the puddle on the floor. Molly took small, careful sips of water. 

“Thank you,” Molly said. He was grateful for Fjord’s care and understanding. It was nice, he decided, to have friends who cared enough to clean up your vomit for you.

“Don’t mention it.” Fjord rose, placed the soiled rag into the empty chamber pot, and climbed back into bed. He dimed the lamp, but left just a bit of light for Molly. Despite both of them having darkvision, there was something about light that was comforting.

“G’night Molly.”

“Good night, Fjord.”


End file.
